


So Much Left Unspoken

by lustig



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anger, Domestic Fluff, Drinking to Cope, Ducks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Ice Skating, Late Night Writing, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19713040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: One Word Prompts, originally posted on Tumblr.Part 1 - Crucifixion, prompted by FreyaLor (Modern Author AU)Part 2 - Bottle, prompted by TheMidnightMaven (Canon history, after Savoy)Part 3 - Octopus, prompted by Durani (Canon/French History)Part 4 - Lunch, prompted by grabmotte (Figure Skating AU)Part 5 - Ducks, prompted by Little_Raven_23 (Canon/French history)Beta'ed by the fabulous liadt.





	1. Crucifixion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreyaLor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/gifts), [Durani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durani/gifts), [grabmotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/gifts), [Little_Raven_23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Raven_23/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Crucifixion" from FreyaLor. Richelieu gets distracted by research and forgets to eat. Treville takes care of him.

“Should I be worried?” Armand heard a bemused voice behind him say.

Surprised, but too tired to react properly, Armand turned, removing the hand on the keyboard to rub his eyes, before facing his husband, relishing the warm smile Jean gave him.

Before he could reply, before he had fully turned, the Captain bent down to steal a languid kiss, one hand grabbing the back of the chair, the other cradling the author’s chin, causing Armand to sigh inaudibly into the comforting, _beloved_ , gesture. He closed his eyes, taking pleasure in the way Jean softly stroked his throat and felt the tension bleed out of his stiff shoulders.

What time was it? Why was it dark already? It had been just before noon when he had sat down at his computer, to research a little for the next part of his _Comissaire Cahusac_ series.

The stroking stopped and he reluctantly opened his eyes again, staring up at the chin of Jean, who had his gaze turned towards his screen.

“ _Crucifixion_? Armand, I thought you were going for _witch hunting_ , not for _martyrdom_. What happened?”

He leaned against Jean’s broad chest and closed his eyes. He was _so_ tired. His chair slowly started to roll away, making his position uncomfortable until his husband changed his grip on the back of the chair to stop him from moving away.

“I love you,” Armand murmured, because it was true, and because he didn’t say it often enough. Jean did all these little things for him, without any prompting, probably even without noticing. He was just _there_ and he was _good_ and _pure_ and _amazing_ and Armand didn’t deserve him, but Jean still hadn’t left and... He wanted to sleep. Preferably curled into Jean, into the hot furnace of his body, not alone, never alone again, safe, protected.

“Did you eat?”

Armand made a noise that could be interpreted as confirmation, if one tried hard enough. Jean didn’t.

He just sighed, half bemused, half exasperated, and picked his husband out of his chair and carried him away. Armand buried his face in the crook of Jean’s neck, how was _anyone_ allowed to smell _that good,_ seriously? Jean’s smell should be _illegal,_ he thought.

Then Jean placed him on a sofa and wound himself out of his arms and wouldn’t stay, not even after the protesting mewl Armand gave.

“I’ll be _back_. Give me just a second, okay?” he promised.

He was gone more than a second, but Armand was too tired to care. He was startled awake when his husband softly touched his shoulder, holding a cup in his hand and stared into his face, eyes impossibly blue.

“It’s hot chocolate. Nothing substantial, I know, but better than nothing. Can you drink on your own?”

Armand gave him a withering glare. Or what would have been one, if his eyes didn’t keep drooping shut. Jean’s smile grew wider.

“Alright,” he said, sitting down next to the author and wrapping his free arm around his shoulders. “In that case, I’m obviously obliged to help.”

He held the cup to Armand’s mouth, letting him take a small sip, and while he did that, dropped a little kiss against the author’s temple.

“Love you too,” he murmured into the soft curls.


	2. Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Bottle" from [themidnightmaven](https://themidnightraven.tumblr.com/). Treville has problems dealing with the aftermaths of Savoy.

They told the Cardinal they had found the Captain in a pub he _knew_ was not used by Musketeers. No wonder it had taken him so long to find the other man’s hiding place.

Most of his servants had already gone to bed; it was long past midnight. He grabbed a dark, brownish-grey coat that belonged to one of the many eyes working for him around the city. When he turned to the door, to quietly make his way outside, he caught the disapproving glare of one of his guards and let out a soundless sigh.

“Follow me. Inconspicuously. If it makes you feel better.”

They made their way through the sleeping city until they reached the seedy part of town, where Richelieu slowed down; searching for signs which matched the directions he had been given.

It took another twenty minutes before he found the dirty hole that had been described to him. He stepped in, the air chokingly thick with smoke.

A few moments later the door opened, letting his guard in behind him. He couldn’t see a thing.

After his eyes had got used to the bad light, he was able to make out some shapes. There were a few people in the room, mostly hunched over their tables, glasses and bottles. A fire was burning, the source of the terrible smoke, but it seemed to be contained.

Silent, like a cat searching for its prey, Richelieu stalked through the room, from table to table. No one took any notice of him. Maybe they thought he was looking for a free place.

Finally, in the innermost corner, there was a familiar shape.

He threw a look back, to the guard, silently asking him to _trust, wait, let me_. He might have imagined the nod, but his companion sat down at an empty table without taking another step in his direction.

He crossed the last bit of distance between himself and the table, took a chair and sat down.

Treville looked up, his eyes bloodshot. In his hands he held a nearly empty bottle whose label was too dirty to be deciphered

Richelieu didn’t remove his cape. He didn’t have to.

“Wha’ d’you want.” His blue eyes were like ice: sharp and piercing, despite the amount of alcohol he must have in his bloodstream by now.

“Come back.” Richelieu hesitated over his words, for maybe a second too long, before adding: “Please.”

Treville only scoffed, a shadow rushing over his face before taking another sip.

“They’re dead.” Another sip. “D’you know wha' that means?”

“Captain, I –”

The bottle was slammed back on the table, the sound angry and dark, and a few of the patrons hissed at them to be quiet.

“They’re _dead_. Twenny good Musssseteers, _glorious_ Musss-keteers, twenny boys I’ _ve been raisin’ for the las’ five years_. They’ll _never come back_! They’re _gone_ an’ it’s _your fucking fault_.”

Richelieu felt himself shaking, more with every word from his counterpart, but he knew he couldn’t show any kind of weakness, especially not now.

“They knew the danger they agreed to when they decided to join the army,” he answered simply. Treville’s grip around the bottle became white.

“For mos’ of them, ‘t wasn’t a _choice_ ,” he hissed, dangerously low, “they’re noble _kids_ , ‘t’s ‘xpected of ‘em.”

“Jean,” Richelieu tried again, voice so, so soft.

“I’m never going to see them again.” Treville’s lashes were wet, and he looked surprised about that. For a frightening second his eyes were completely clear, every trace of the alcohol gone. “ _I’m never going to see them again_.”

“Jean, it’s not the first time you’ve lost someone during your time in the army. It will be okay, you know it will.” Except they both knew it wouldn’t be okay. He wouldn’t admit to still hearing the cries of the dying children of La Rochelle, and Treville wouldn’t admit he still drank a glass of that strange, self-made schnapps every year on the birthday of de Foix. They knew, they pretended, they moved on in their own way, their steps just a little bit heavier.

“It’s the first time I’ve lost men under my protection. They weren’t brothers in arms. They were my responsibility. I was supposed to bring them home,” Jean disagreed with a rare display of honesty. He seemed so sober now, and Richelieu felt even more sorry for him. Now even the protection the alcohol had provided for his mind was gone.

“They died to prevent a war. It is a worthy cause, even if their deaths might seem pointless to you, now. Please, Jean. Come home.”

“I could ride into Savoy to avenge them.” Treville turned away; hiding his face from the Cardinal’s knowing eyes. “I could just grab a horse, in the dark of night, and ride to Turin, no one minds a single rider minding his own business.”

Richelieu’s jaw worked hard against gnashing his teeth.

“Jean, you are too important for that.” He closed his eyes, let another part of his wall down. “Too important _to me_ , too.” He hated how weak he felt, how helpless. He took a laboured breath, and added: “Come home and sleep. If you still want to ride out in the morning, I won’t try to stop you. But _please_ , come home.”

And finally the tired eyes seemed to _really_ focus on the hooded figure sitting next to him.

“Alright,” he murmured, and they both got up.


	3. Octopus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Octopus" from Durani. Treville has to visit a banquet he doesn't want to go to, but Richelieu is there too.

Treville hated formal banquets.

He hated them with all his heart, with his whole being, with everything he had.

They were bad enough when they took place in the Louvre, with courtiers he knew and whose steps he could predict. But this, here, in the house of one of the Grands, while they were at _war_ , this was just terrible.

He hated the splendour of the food, how there was far too much of it, like it wasn’t even there to eat but only to impress.

All the while, soldiers were going on one-and-a-half rations a day because they couldn’t afford more supplies and right now, it wasn’t certain how long they would stay on the road and when they might be able to restock them.

He stared at what he supposed was the masterpiece of the evening; a huge octopus, draped on a bed of some sort of seaweed-salad, surrounded by mussels and crabs. It was still untouched, the dead eyes staring aimlessly into the room, waiting for the first few courses to be finished.

He scoffed, barely managing to hide the disdainful sound behind a cough. He was only a captain, not supposed to participate. The King had still ordered him to attend, though, with a handful of his musketeers to make sure they weren’t walking into a trap.

His eyes, cold and blue, sharp like ice, wandered up to the place where the King sat, next to the Lord of the house, who had invited him to spend the night here, and on his other side, as per usual, his shadow in red.

Richelieu always looked posed to everyone, and people didn’t take the time to try and analyse him closer. They didn’t want his attention, scared of what it might do to them. Without even knowing, they voluntarily gave away their greatest weapon against him.

Treville could see, even from where he stood, on the other side of the room, the slight slump in the Cardinal’s shoulders, the way he bowed his head down to the food, nearly invisible but the Captain _knew_ Richelieu, and he knew that the Cardinal was tired, most likely feeling another headache coming on. He poked around in his food without any enthusiasm, pushing the pieces from one side to the next.

Why had he agreed to a plate of what was served to everyone? Didn’t they know he only ever stayed with cheese, bread and dried fruits?

As if he felt his gaze on him, Richelieu suddenly raised his head, their eyes meeting over the table, across the room. A smile twitched around the corners of the Cardinal’s mouth, and his eyes softened a little, stealing the tension from Treville’s shoulders.

There was a promise in those eyes.

And for now, that was enough.


	4. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Lunch" from grabmotte. Treville is fretting about contacting Richelieu for a favour.

D’Artagnan was right. The girl – _Constance_ – was amazing.

He wouldn’t train her, he had told Porthos as much. His figure skating days were long over. He might have been good, once – _still was_ , Porthos would say, or he wouldn’t have asked him in the first place – but he didn’t think he would be able to satisfy the girl’s needs, either. He knew her current trainer’s name, and the man _was_ very good.

Treville had spent the last, what was it? Fifteen, twenty years, in hockey, and what he could offer wasn’t what the girl _needed_. He couldn’t train her to get better at _figure skating_.

But there was someone who could help, better than he ever could.

He just didn’t know if he could do this.

He had asked her to skate for him, of course, to show what she knew, what she could offer. And he had felt the old melancholy feeling come back to him, mere moments after she had started her free skate for this season. She was breathtaking.

There was the natural elegance of her body, the fluid movement of a dancer, the effortless, floating grace. The strength of muscles you couldn’t see if you weren’t looking for them, flexing with every turn, every jump, every step sequence. Her movement looked pure and untainted, free and powerful, dangerous and so, so enticing. She radiated _life_ and _happiness_. This was what she was born for. Gliding over the ice like a swan, strong and _unstoppable_ and –

_He remembered another dance, another swan, a pair of swans, treading the daring line of what they were allowed to do on the ice, what they could pull out of themselves._

_The black swan, seducing, dangerous,_ flirting _, and the clueless prince, white and unmarked, looking for his bride,_ helpless _, dancing around and falling, falling, falling._

_Their first national title, Armand twenty, he seventeen, and how they had seduced the audience, brought them to tears with their free skate to_ Tschaikovsky’s Swan Lake _that night, every night._

_The dark, delighted laughter in Armand’s eyes, wilder and more ferocious every time they presented their skate to the world’s eyes, the first-ever male only couple to get a national title, and he was so_ young _and drunken on glory in his white costume, trapped in a dance he never wanted to st –_

He shook himself out of his thoughts and stared at the phone in his hand.

How could he _do_ this? He hadn’t seen Armand for years – not face to face at least, but they were both kind of in television all the time. He had seen his hair turn from dark brown to the silvery grey it was now, his body still lithe and taut, long limbs and the fluid way he moved, like a predator, like a dancer, like he owned every place he went.

But he hadn’t seen the way his eyes, blueish-grey, would sparkle with the silent amusement of a joke only they understood. He hadn’t seen the way his hair floated around his head while he spun on the ice, as if it was independent from the rest of his body. He hadn’t seen how he underlined all he was saying with small hand gestures.

He hadn’t seen _Armand_ for what felt like an eternity. Maybe he hadn’t really seen him since the day he had told him he was focusing on hockey – _it’s only for a while, Armand. I need a break from the dancing. I need to clear my mind; I will come back._

They had last spoken – what? It wasn’t the _last_ Olympics, they had both been there, but kept missing each other, there were always interviews and trainings to be held and players – or in Armand’s case, _skaters_ to be reassured. They exchanged a few text messages shortly before, and soon after, telling each other they were sorry they had been unable to meet.

When was the last time they had talked? In person? On the phone? Was it the Olympics _before_ the last one?

Treville couldn’t remember.

_How could he do this?_

He glanced down at his phone again, the screen black now, he had waited too long. With a sigh he pressed the power button and unlocked the screen with a lazy motion.

He had Armand’s number. It was his current one; he knew that. His old skating partner had send it to him when it had changed, about a year and a half back.

The message box remained empty: Treville’s mind was blank.

What could he write Armand to make him listen?

Why _should_ Armand even want to listen?

This was pointless.

And yet, he had to try. Constance needed him. D’Artagnan, Porthos, his team, they depended on his ability to do the right thing. He didn’t want to see talent wasted, and Constance _had_ the talent. She was stubborn, strong, self-confident and the skating was _in her blood_.

Armand could nurture her into perfection.

She wouldn’t be the first to win Olympic Gold under his tutelage.

_‘Wanna grab lunch together some time?’_ he wrote and pressed _Send_ before he could decide differently. He let out a shaky breath. He’d done it. Now it wasn’t up to him anymore. He had done-

His phone vibrated softly in his hand, a new message appearing below his: _‘I’d love to. I’m at the rink, pick me up at 12?’_


	5. Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Ducks" from Little_Raven_23. A duck observes the happy reunion of a couple next to its pond by night.

She had nearly forgotten the human’s presence next to the pond when the second one appeared.

Tired, startled out of her light slumber, she blinked a few times, trying to focus on the pair, only a few metres away, but safely out of reach. She still wanted to make sure they weren’t a threat – _humans rarely were,_ a part of her brain added – for it was her turn, to be the lookout for the small colony, sleeping on the pond.

But the pair ignored them, completely.

At least they did, after the newcomer reached the first human.

The night was quiet and calm, a fox had passed close to the pond earlier but it carried its game, an unlucky little rabbit.

With nothing better to do, the duck kept watching the two night visitors. Sometimes the humans who came here could be amusing, especially in the deep of the night and early hours of the morning. Humans were terribly unobservant and ignorant, as if they lived in their own little world without realising what was going on all around them.

They were also terribly bad with languages.

“ _Jean_ ,” the first human said, the one who had spent the last hour or so silently staring at the pond, without giving them any bread, which was unfortunate, but then, this man had never given them bread before, as far as she could remember. “ _You are here._ ”

He sounded so happy, stating the obvious. She knew, from experience – as it wasn’t the first time she got the night watch, she liked watching other creatures, more than most of the other ducks – that they would try to suck each other’s faces off, and then probably wander off after a while, before coming back to the pond and then going their separate ways.

It was what usually happened. But, then again, she hadn’t seen the second human – the one who usually _did_ bring some bread with him – in a while.

She got ready to stick her head below her right wing again, to settle in to that state between wakefulness and sleep where she would be able to warn the colony if something dangerous approached but still get plenty of rest, when the first human spoke again.

“ _I missed you. Why did it take so long? What happened?_ ”

No sucking-off-faces, which was so frustratingly pointless; why couldn’t they groom each other’s hair instead, even if they didn’t have a lot of it? Or cuddle close together for warmth and speak just loud enough so the other one could hear it? Or not speak with noises at all, but with their body, as they should be able to but seemed to be mostly deaf to?

She still tried to find that calm state she was looking for, but was disrupted again in her efforts when the second man answered.

“ _Someone found out about our little scouting party. We… we had to_ –“

“If you think you need to make so much noise this late at night, you could at least give us some bread,” she quacked at them tetchily.

Hearing _bread_ , a few of the other ducks joined in, not awake, but still subconsciously aware of their surroundings.

“Bread.”

“Bread.”

“Yes, bread.”

“Ohh, bread.”

But they fell silent again soon enough.

“ _See? Even the ducks have missed you_ ,” the first man chattered on, as if she hadn’t just told them to stop. But she couldn’t really blame him. It wasn’t his fault his species was too stupid to grasp even the basic concept of thinking outside of their own little world. Maybe it would come, someday, with their children or children’s children. For now she had to endure their blindness and deafness and just hope their talking wouldn’t wake up the rest of the group.

Instead of trying to rest again, she kept watching them, head bedded on the soft feathers of her wings, nicely oiled and cleaned just before the colony had retreated to the centre of the pond, to be safer from possible threats. Because, unlike humans, what _they_ did usually served a purpose. Grooming, swimming, feeding, flying.

Oh, _flying_. How she loved flying. The wind caressing her feathers, the sun warm on her back. She remembered the days before she came here, to the pond, when she didn’t have regular access to bread. She remembered that she had loved flying back then, too, but it was more exhausting, and she couldn’t fly for as long. But now she had a place to return to, a new colony, and enough food to spend a long time airborne, if she wanted to.

The humans had moved closer to each other; the second human – _Jean,_ the first one had called him – seemed to _finally_ groom the first human’s hair.

Jean. What a funny name. If it had any meaning behind it? Did the other humans hearing it know what kind of human Jean was? Or was the name just a noise they invented, and they used other things for descriptions? What did humans _do_ to tell colony-outsiders about their hierarchy?

She couldn’t ask them, at least not in a way they would understand. Maybe she would find out at some point, but it would be an accident, like the name had been.

She felt peaceful, watching the humans. They still spoke to each other, but it was so quiet now that she would have to strain her hearing to catch the words, and why should she do that, if she had asked them to be quieter anyway, even if they hadn’t understood?

They had huddled together now, but with their heads touching, eyes fixed on each other. It was stupid, because this way they wouldn’t be able to see any danger coming. On the other hand, there weren’t any predators around that would actually pose a threat to them, at least not as far as she knew. Except for other humans. But they were usually asleep at this time of night, like her duck colony, as they should be, for creatures without any useful night vision.

She could only see because the moon was so bright tonight, bathing the pond and the surrounding area in its silver light.

They did the face-sucking now, but it didn’t look as embarrassing as it usually did. They were close, their bodies aligned and pressed against each other, holding each other upright with their arms while still grooming each other’s hair. The balance system of humans didn’t make a lot of sense. Their body mass centre was too high for two legs to be entirely stable.

But that wasn’t her problem.

Humans were weird. But she enjoyed watching them and their strange antics nonetheless.

And if they gave her and the rest of her colony a little bread every now and then, they could continue in any way they wanted to.

She finally found her way back between wakefulness and sleep and _dreamed_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Feuertrunken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20896253) by [Dans-le-Vif (Criz)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Criz/pseuds/Dans-le-Vif)




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